


Traditions: Amended

by scullyseviltwin



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Christmas fic, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-25
Updated: 2012-12-25
Packaged: 2017-11-22 08:00:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,987
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/607601
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scullyseviltwin/pseuds/scullyseviltwin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s an equal effort between the flatmates to turn 221B into an acceptable Christmas spectacle.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Traditions: Amended

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was almost titled 221B Turtledoves. Just because.

It’s an equal effort between the flatmates to turn 221B into an acceptable Christmas spectacle. It had taken John quite by surprise when Sherlock had produced a bursting box of holiday decorations from the hallway closet. Delicate garlands and sparkling, strung lights. Artificial holly that appears incredibly real and half-empty cans of faux snow with which to spray upon the windows.

It’s quite impressive really, how much effort Sherlock puts into transforming their living space; the light in his eyes, that too is quite impressive... and rather sweet actually. The detective hums to himself quietly; John wonders if he knows he’s doing it or not, but either way it is the most endearing thing he’s sure he’s ever heard. It tugs at the corners of John’s mouth, blurring his quiet little smile into a grin.

John very nearly hums along but decides against it, not wanting to break the delicate, comfortable holiday bubble that’s somehow cocooned them. It’s quite lovely and feels domestic in a very simple way; this is the best and most “holiday spirit” John has felt in many, many years.

He continues to glance upon his flatmate as he unhooks two ornaments from one another. Sherlock flurries about, bouncing from foot to foot, fingers working all the while. The spectacle is quite entrancing and John finds a lethargic chuckle escaping him.

“What?” Sherlock asks innocently as he manages to make unknotting the lights look incredibly elegant, fingers plucking and twisting against the evergreen cords.

John flushes a bit and goes back to picking and sorting through the various colorful baubles nestled against ivory tissue paper. “Nothing, nothing. I think it’s obvious that I wouldn’t expect you to be this _fond_ of Christmas.”

Sherlock straightens his spine and with a stiff upper lip says defensively, “Well, I am.” And that is that, Sherlock gives no further explanation and John accepts it at face value, enjoying the quiet camaraderie that they’ve settled into in unpacking everything. There are piles of various colored tinsel that Sherlock has saved in various baggies, boxes of gold and silver candles, delicate things that fit in the intricate holders that are wrapped carefully in even more tissue paper.

John handles each piece with the utmost care, laying them independent of one another on the coffee table and sofa.

He can certainly see a family such as the Holmes’s as owning such lovely and fragile pieces, packing them away with the utmost care during the other eleven months of the year. John wishes he could picture a young Sherlock decorating the tree or placing candles in the windows but he cannot.

He’s yet to find a photograph of a younger Sherlock, but he still holds out hope. John is sure he was a tiny terror of a child, all wild hair and pale skin, sneaking down the steps on Christmas eve to attempt to deduce the gifts beneath the tree. There is, of course, the possibility of a more somber childhood, a Christmas where the idea of Santa was not tolerated, the holiday celebrated rigidly but John prefers his wisp of imagined Christmases past for his friend. And why else would the man take so fondly to the holiday?

After unearthing a piece of stunning blown glasswork affixed to a thick gold cord, John sets it aside and sighs.

“You know, I think Harry has some of our old... decorations stored at her place, maybe I’ll pick them up,” John suggests after a bit, after he’s cataloged seven different sorts of ornaments. He offers it a bit casually, doesn’t want to disturb his flatmate’s preparations, isn’t sure exactly how he’ll handle an outright rejection.

“Perhaps you should,” Sherlock offers back, flashing a small smile over his shoulder.

“Alright,” John warms at the idea of integrating his own Christmas traditions in with Sherlock’s.

Sherlock grins and holds out the strand of untangled lights end to end in unbridled enthusiasm for his success. “Good.”

\---

John does make his way out to Sussex two weeks before Christmas. He picks up groceries in town and Harry picks him up just down the road from the pub she used to frequent. _Used_ to frequent. As far as blessings go, this is a long time coming and the knowledge that she’s been clean and sober for four months now was the only assurance John had needed before inviting himself up for the night. “Cooking for me _and_ taking some of the boxes of your shite off of my hands, it’s a Christmas miracle!”

“Oh it’s _our_ shite, and mum’s, and dad’s so... shut it, like you couldn’t do with a home cooked meal.”

She laughs, takes a left, pulls into her drive, “You’re right, Clara can’t cook worth a damn and, well, you know me.”

“I do,” he says warmly and unloads the groceries from the back once they’ve parked. “Say, do you remember the things we used to keep on the mantle?”

“Oh god, of course,” Harry juggles a sack of sweets in one arm as she works to open the door. “Why? Tell me you want those, oh _please_.”

John feels slightly wounded for a moment. He remembers the mantle decorations fondly; they’re one of the more happy memories of his childhood. He, Harry and their parents, determining which of the items would go where every year. It was a strategic thing, though he wasn’t sure why, but everyone had an opinion, and the decorations couldn’t go up without everyone confirming their final placement. He didn’t think Harry would so easily wish to part with them.

“Eh, yeah, if you’re willing,” he says a bit sullenly and follows her through to the kitchen.

Harry begins setting out the shopping. “More than, they’re all in the basement, the back room, have at it.” He’s halfway down the steps when she calls, “What do you want to drink? I’ve got lemon water, sparkling cider, some weird mineral water Clara’s using for her cleanse and-”

“Tap water is fine!” he shouts back a little giddily as he locates the _exact_ box he’s looking for in no time. ‘It’s a Christmas miracle,’ he thinks to himself a bit wryly and sets about working it out from under the clutter of all of the other boxes.

\---

John returns home in high spirits the next day, box nestled beneath his arm, cheeks high from the winter air. “I!” He begins as though announcing to the whole of Baker Street that he has an exclamation. “Have found my Christmas decorations.”

“Have you, now?” Sherlock attempts to sound casual as he rosins his bow but he glances up at John with bare excitement. “So, what have you?”

“Well,” John tosses off his coat, doesn’t bother placing it properly on the peg, instead opting to toss it onto the sofa. He flicks the flaps of the box open and roots around until he finds the largest of the lot: a fat, jolly Santa with green and red trousers and a bird perched atop his hat. It’s a ridiculous piece, what with the small man grabbing his own jolly stomach. It’s an eyesore, really, but John holds it up with such glee, and Sherlock can’t help but laugh.

He places Santa down on the coffee table and reaches back towards the dented, dusty box. “And!” John unearths snowman after snowman, an army of them, all donned in various seasonal attire, all wearing maniacally cheery expressions. “These... we’d put them on the mantle. Obviously, they don’t have to go on the mantle here but...”

Hands on hips, he surveys his yuletide offering with boyish excitement and turns towards Sherlock to assess his reaction.

With a perched brow, Sherlock rises and comes to stand beside him. “Those,” he takes a breath. “Are _hideous_.”

John’s heart plummets immediately, drops right out of him, through the floor, straight through Mrs. Hudson’s and plops down to rest on the cold, hard floor of 221C. There’s a pressure welling insistently in his throat and he can’t really figure out _why_. He’s a grown man, Christmas hasn’t meant anything to him in years; even Harry’s very-real, very-familiar jabbing about one of his-alright, he’ll admit it-treasured family traditions hadn’t spurred such a reaction.

And it’s in that moment that John realizes how he’s come to think of _Sherlock_ as family, as someone closer than a flatmate and friend, as something deeper and more meaningful. It _hurts_ more, then, when Sherlock pokes fun at it. John knows it’s ridiculous, taking something like this so very personally, but he can’t help it. There’d been the glimmer of hope of a rekindled tradition and he hadn’t realized how much he’d craved it.

“Well-” John begins a little dryly, a lot crestfallen.

Sherlock abruptly cuts him off, “Of _course_ we’re putting them on the mantle.” And Sherlock sweeps across to the fireplace and removes the various bits and bobs from atop. “Is there a process to all of this?” Sherlock picks up the Santa and plucks at his glue-affixed clothing. “There must be a certain way they’re set... John?”

The relief that floods through John is a deluge; it weakens his knees just a bit. There’s a moment when he doesn’t feel the grin that’s spread across his face but when he becomes cognizant of it, he realizes he’s smiling to the point of splitting. It very nearly _hurts_.

“No certain way, really, just... here,” John moves to grab two snowmen and hands the rest to Sherlock. He places one snowman down the far end of the mantle nearest the windows and watches as Sherlock peers at the wood and then at the smallest snowman, putting him down directly in the center of the wood.

He glances to John as though looking for approval. John smiles, places one of his snowmen directly next to Sherlock, plucking the tiny scarf around the figure’s neck and winding it as best he can around the neck of Sherlock’s.

Breathing a little huff of a laugh through his nose, Sherlock placed down another figure and John one of his. They proceeded like this until they were through with the scene. Both taking a step back, they surveyed their work. A sweet little army of mismatched snowmen, all out for a day on the mantle-town and Santa, watching creepily from behind the skull.

“I’d say this is just about perfect,” John states succinctly, nodding his pleasure.

Sherlock too nods along. “Oh yes, Santa is clearly up to something nefarious, especially judging on his attire.”

For a moment there was nothing but silence and then both men burst into a fit of laughter.

“Thank you,” John mentions as his laughter peters out. “For...” And he waves his hand at the silly little spectacle before him.

Sherlock’s brow knits as he turns to face his flatmate, “Of course, it is _our_ flat, John.”

Their gazes hold for a long moment and something sparks in the pit of John’s stomach, meanders from the base of his spine through his limbs, diffusing him with a sense of absolute serenity. He’s positively assured that there’s no other place that he’d wish to be than beside this man, in his moment.

And their days progress as they normally do but are infused with hot buttered rum and Christmas carols. Sherlock plays holiday fare and John manages to bake a few edible batches of ginger cookies. He watches specials on the telly with Mrs. Hudson while Sherlock diligently sets about making a list of the perfect gifts he will force John to purchase for each of their mutual acquaintances.

John doesn’t mention how intimate that is, how much about their relationship that this implies, giving joint gifts to their friends.

There is no mistletoe because that would be a bit much but John does return from the surgery early on Christmas Eve to note the tiny knit hat that Sherlock had affixed to John’s snowman figurine sometime the night previous.


End file.
